From Valinor With Love: a Musical Tale
by Authoressinhiding
Summary: Throughout the long history of Middle-earth, there have been many instances of random singing, a phenomenon referred to in scrolls of lore as the "vocal runs." Here follows the confession of their creator and the stories of his hapless victims. A series of one-shots featuring parodies of popular Broadway, Disney, Top 40, and classic rock songs. Ch1: Lorde Denethor gets Royal.
1. Prologue: Enter Alassë

**Disclaimer: The plot, parodies, and a few OC's are mine. All canon characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, and every parodied song belongs to the artist and their record company. **

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**Prologue: Halls of Judgement, Ilmarin, Taniquetil, Valinor**

"Alassë! We have come to record your statement for the council of the Aratar. Speak carefully, for this will decide your doom."

Silence met this auspicious statement. The messenger, Eönwë, herald of Manwë, spoke again, allowing irritation to color his voice.

"Alassë! This is your only opportunity to plead your case. Come, tell us. How did it begin?"

The cell remained empty save for the tall Eönwë and a slight brunette Maia woman whose arms bulged with parchment, an inkpot, and a large eagle quill pen. A patch of air near the far wall shimmered faintly, and a cough sounded.

"It began with the Ainulindalë, the Great Music," announced a dry, male voice from the shimmering air. "We, the Ainur, all gathered together under Illúvatar. We sang throughout our fair regions until our music filled the emptiness and the Void. We sang through the discords of Melkor and the resolution of the Music by Illúvatar."

"My lord?" whispered the Maia to Eönwë. "Do I copy this?"

The fair herald waved a single hand dismissively. "All of this is written already, Alassë. We do not need the history of the World. It has been told better and by others. An accounting of your own deeds will suffice."

The voice continued as if it had not heard, "And when the Music ceased, we beheld the wonders our Music had created. The colors and light, the oceans and winds, the stones and metals and jewels – Arda, the Earth. On that day, many of the Ainur chose to reside within this new world. I was among them. The Valar and Maiar, as we were afterwards called, could cloak themselves in whatever semblance they desired and pass unseen among lesser spirits and beings.

"Elsewhere, it is recorded of the labors of the Valar in fashioning the Earth, of the coming forth of Elves and Men, and of the great struggles against Melkor – sorry, Morgoth," the voice added as the Maia woman flinched visibly. "Forgive me, my dear. I'm not very good with change. Anyway, this is not that story.

"This is the tale of a Maia who tired of overseeing the world and decided to meddle instead. A Maia who longed to hear again the Music of the Ainur and thought it sad for mortals that they should have such little music of their own. How much more joy would there be if the Children of Illúvatar – and all other races in Arda – could sing just as easily as speaking! And so I set forth to spread music and merriment."

Eönwë groaned aloud at this. "_That_ is your reasoning? That is your justification for all the trouble you have caused? Laurë, start writing now."

"Yes, my lord." The Maia woman opened up her travel stool. Settling onto the rickety wooden seat, she spread a piece of parchment open on her lap. "I am ready."

"Ahem." The voice sounded irritated at being interrupted. "If you will please pay attention, I am Alassë of the Maiar, and here follows the tale of my meddling..."

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**A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this story. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated. Next chapter, the singing takes off, and Lorde Denethor gets in touch with his royal nature. Also, I am currently looking for a new title for this story. Any suggestions? **


	2. Royals

**A/N: The first song to be included in this anthology of tales is "Royals" by Lorde. If anyone is unfamiliar with it, I highly recommend finding it on YouTube.**

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**Halls of Judgement, Ilmarin, Taniquetil, Valinor**

**From the Trial of Alassë, as recorded by Laurë, chief scribe of Manwë, Lord of Air**

_Others may deride me for not recounting my adventures in a strictly chronological fashion. Allow me to defend myself. I meddled successfully throughout the Third and Fourth Ages of this Middle-Earth until someone informed Manwë of my adventures, and he sent his thug Eönwë to drag me back to Valinor. Stop pouting like that, Eönwë. I only speak the truth._

_Ehem. Chronology. My memory, while immense, is by no means perfect. I shall tell of my adventures as they come to remembrance. Besides, where is the fun in doing things in order?_

_Our first tale begins in the last days of the Third Age, during what was then called the War of the Ring._

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**The 9****th**** of March, Year 3019 of the Third Age, Minas Tirith, Gondor, Middle-Earth**

It had been an exhausting day, even in comparison to all the other dark, exhausting, miserable days since he had first learned of the death of his beloved Boromir.

At last free from the concerns and questions of his people, Denethor ascended the steep stone steps to the top of his tower, a lit taper in one hand. He paused at the top to rummage for a skeleton key in the pockets of his robe. Unlocking the heavy wooden door – a mixture of oak and pine boards, six inches thick, reinforced with long strips of iron – the steward entered his private study.

The furnishings were sparse. A behemoth oak desk, a sturdy chair, and a couple of bookcases were all that alleviated the grimness of the room. It contained neither fireplace nor brazier, for here, at least, Denethor would brook no weakness by allowing such "creature comforts." Aging he might be, but old and frail he would never be.

Glancing once towards the cloth-covered bundle at the back of his desk, Denethor reached for a large scroll on the bottom shelf of the closest bookcase. _A Brief History of the Heirs of Isildur_. Given the implications of the Halfing's tale that day, he thought it prudent to refresh his memory of the scroll's contents. Settling into his chair, the Steward began to read. He scoffed under his breath. Mithrandir. This all came back to Mithrandir's meddling. Damned old wizard. Why could he not leave well enough alone?

"I've never seen a Dúnedan in the flesh," he muttered. That is, he intended to mutter. Somehow, however, it came out as a song. Mildly taken aback, the Steward of Gondor continued,

_"I've never seen a Dúnedan in the flesh,_

_I raised my sons to battle Orcs, save the kingdom._

_And I'm justly proud of my success;_

_In my city, no one's in thralldom."_

Denethor paused, disconcerted. But then his mouth seemed to open of its own accord, and the music tumbled out.

_"But history's like:_

_Battles, Stewards_

_Fighting of the Nazgûl_

_Fail-safes, Ringwraiths,_

_Ride to Minas Morgul._

_We don't care; we're protecting Gondor on our own._

_But all the lore's like_

_Gondor, Arnor_

_What happened to Isildur?_

_Swordhilt, Towers built_

_True heir of Elendil!_

_We don't care; Eärnur died without an heir._

_We may never be royals - _

_Númenor's in our blood,_

_But the kingship's not for us._

_Protect the city without a fuss._

_I am still your ruler_

_And my line will always be_

_And how we'll rule, we'll rule, we'll rule…_

_Welcome to reality."_

The Steward dropped the scroll and stood. For some reason, this inexplicable song required dramatic pacing about his tower room. And so he began to pace in the light of a single candle.

"_In Minas Tirith long ago,_

_Glorfindel warned the king of hasty decisions._

_Eärnur left to fight his foe,_

_And the king's death brought_

_Steward supervision._

_And history's like:_

_Choices, Crises,_

_New treaties with Rohan,_

_Valor, Honor,_

_Defending our homeland._

_We don't care. We're protecting Gondor on our own._

_But Mithrandir's like,_

_'Come on, old man!_

_Evil brews in Mordor._

_Hearken! Listen!_

_The King comes to Gondor.'_

_I don't care. Eärnur died without an heir._

_So we'll never be royals._

_Númenor's in our blood,_

_But the kingship's not for us. _

_Control Gondor without a fuss._

_I am still your ruler,_

_And my line will always be. _

_And how we'll rule, we'll rule, we'll rule! _

_Welcome to reality."_

Denethor moved to his window and gazed up at the stars, still singing.

_"Ooh ooh oh ooh _

_Cuz no one could have ever dreamed _

_The consequence of no queen._

_Ooh ooh oh ooh_

_Eärnur died without an heir, _

_Left the city in the Steward's care. _

_And we'll never be royals. _

_Númenor's in our blood,_

_But the kingship's not for us. _

_Protect our world without a fuss._

_I am still your ruler, _

_And my line will always be. _

_And how we'll rule, we'll rule, we'll rule! _

_Welcome to reality."_

As soon as the last note died away, the Steward exited the room. A sensation lingered in his mind that he had not been in complete control of his own body, but he banished the thought instantly. It was likely nothing more than fatigue; he had become overtired due to the exhausting nature of his day. Such a thing had never happened before. Still, Denethor preferred to believe it than to consider alternative possibilities. He rushed down the steep flight of stairs, refusing to look back.

In the deserted tower room, the emptiness sighed once and remarked disappointedly, "Mortals have no sense of the theatric. A decent amateur performance, but rather lacking in heart, I fear."

The air shimmered briefly for a moment, and the voice was gone.

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**A/N: Thoughts? Feedback is greatly appreciated, especially if you have any ideas for other songs that you would like to see parodied here. Next up: Elfalicious.**


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